


The One Where Crowley Knits

by abblepie



Series: Sudfield Cottage [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Footnotes, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Light Angst, Linked Footnotes, M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), POV God (Good Omens), POV Multiple, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), just a bit, metaphysical stuff, mostly for Anxious Thoughts, they're always re-declaring love and I will not change this, yes I know the last fic in this series is also tagged that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-08-20 12:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abblepie/pseuds/abblepie
Summary: Crowley didnottake up knitting simply because he was jealous of a gift somebody gave his angel. He certainly didn’t do it because he wanted to see that bright face of joy turned towards him, just about as often as he could. Nothing like that at all. No, it was purely selfish, which you could tell because… well, he’d think something up later.----South Downs fluff, come and get it. Focused on knitting, Crowley the Maker, and declarations of love. There's also possibly a witch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to read the previous work to understand this one -- it's basic South Downs fluff, totally self contained -- but it could be helpful. Basically in my headcannon, or at least in this series, Crowley can still sense love. I do my best to explain any little differences as they come up though, so each piece should be self contained.
> 
> Still, if you like this, go read my other stuff! I'm too Soft.
> 
> Also, I can't remember who it started with, but talk of Crowley joining a knitting group has been floating around Tumblr for a bit and it definitely inspired this fic. Of course, like always, this fic turned into something huge and monstrous, but hopefully still quite huggable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a close 3rd on Crowley. If I wrote it well, you should be able to tell anyway, but I thought I'd clarify anyway.
> 
> Also I crochet but I don't knit, so if the language is a bit muddled, sorry about that!

Crowley was not, by principle, a jealous creature. Oh, sure, he’d talked the concept of jealousy up[1] to Down Below sometime shortly after there were enough humans for anyone to be jealous of anyone else, but that was all talk. Crowley knew the truth. While it could lead to some terrible things, jealousy itself was more revealing of the fact that an individual cared enough about something to be scared of losing it than anything else. It was a weakness. It was _soft_.

So no, Crowley did _not_ take up knitting simply because he was jealous of a gift somebody gave his angel. He certainly didn’t do it because he wanted to see that bright face of joy turned towards him, just about as often as he could. Nothing like that at all. No, it was purely selfish, which you could tell because… well, he’d think something up later.

The seed of not-jealousy took root during their second winter in Sudfield. Aziraphale and Crowley had been walking through town, the angel’s mittened hand wrapped tightly around Crowley’s elbow. The little town looked absolutely marvelous, with twinkling lights hung about storefronts and a general warm energy as families, lovers and friends finished up their holiday shopping. A few shoppers slipped on icy patches on particularly steep parts of sidewalks, but Crowley made sure it was only enough to embarrassing and not cause long term harm. Anything more would earn him a sharp look from Aziraphale, and would of its own accord be much less fun.

Fat snowflakes fell from the sky, settling in the angel’s fluffy white hair[2]. The angel looked absolutely darling, Crowley couldn’t help but think, like a lamb, or a dandelion. He was certainly warm enough to be the envy of midsummer strolls.

Despite his impressive ability to generate warmth, he seemed to be largely exothermic. The end result was quite pitiful, which Crowley had a feeling was exactly what the angel was going for. He clung to Crowley tightly, his ears, nose, and cheeks tinged a perfect rosy pink. Puffs of breath drew from between his lips like low slung clouds.

“Tempt you to some cocoa?” Crowley suggested, nodding to their favorite little cafe.

Aziraphale beamed at him, doing his little pleased wiggle, and it was settled.

The bell above the door dinged as they entered. The young woman behind the counter grinned up at the two of them. “Mr. Fell!” she called, waving over. “And Crowley.” She nodded at him as they walked up. Crowley returned the cool nod. She’d gotten a haircut recently. Seemed as though she finally convinced her hairdresser to just take the bloody clippers to it, already. It looked fetching, and it showed off the flower tattoo she had under her ear.

“Ah, thank you, Dahlia,” Aziraphale said as she settled them into a nice table near a window. “Tell me, how is your father doing?”

“Oh,” Dahlia said, beaming as she clutched her notepad to her chest. “He’s doing much better, thanks for asking! Went to the doctor for a checkup and they said it was all but gone. Couldn’t explain why, but we aren’t complaining. It's been tough, but, well.” She sighed — Crowley could feel that she’d shared more than she meant to, but that sort of thing just happened around the angel. 

“Ah, and what will you two gents be having today? The usual?” 

Aziraphale nodded, smiling. “That would be lovely.”

Dahlia scurried off to place their order. Crowley turned to face the angel.

“A miraculous recovery? Do you not even rest for the holidays?”

Crowley expected him to make some snipe about how _The holidays are the very time I’m meant to be encouraging the most miracles, thank you very much,_ but the angel very much did _not_ take that direction.

“Oh, please. As though I don’t know perfectly well who _tempted_ her barber to give her a properly short cut like she’s been wanting for months.”

Crowley meant to correct him from ‘barber’ to ‘hairdresser,’ but it did seem like a silly distinction at this point. Anyway, his face was burning too much to do much other than slouch disdainfully into his chair. The angel only chuckled at him.

They barely had time to begin talking again when Dahlia bustled back to their table. “Cocoa with hazelnut,” she said, sliding the cup to Aziraphale’s side of the table, “And one black coffee.” 

  
Crowley flicked out his forked tongue to the hot beverage, and Dahlia bit back a laugh[3].

“Oh,” she hurried on before they could say anything. “Actually, I have something for you. Just a mo’,” and she was gone once more.

Crowley and Aziraphale shared a look. Crowley quirked an eyebrow, and Aziraphale shrugged.

After a few seconds Dahlia was back, two boxes in her hands. They were both wrapped in plain brown paper. One had a gold ribbon tied around it, and one had a red bow.

She slid the gold one in front of Aziraphale and the red one in front of Crowley.

“Oh… my dear!” Aziraphale gasped. “Why, you didn’t have to!”

“Open it,” Dahlia urged, biting her cheek in a show of nerves that Crowley found just a bit too familiar.

Crowley watched Aziraphale carefully slip the ribbon free, opening the package while ripping the paper as little as possible. Inside was a small cardboard box, and when Aziraphale opened the top he gasped. 

“What, what is it?” Crowley asked, straightening up in an attempt to see while trying very hard to look casual. It didn’t work on either account.

Aziraphale pulled out a green ribbed scarf, blue eyes transfixed. “Did you knit this yourself?”

Dahlia blushed. “Yeah. Well, my family bought the supplies as a thank you, but I’m the one who knitted it.”

“You’re very talented,” Aziraphale complimented.

Dahlia smiled, then glanced at Crowley’s present. The desire she had for him to open it was palpable. He made no move to. He may have relaxed a bit since taking work leave from Down There, but he was still opposed to public displays of emotion or gratitude. He sipped his coffee, ignoring Aziraphale as he rolled his eyes.

Dahlia’s face fell a bit, but she covered it up quickly. “Well, I hope you both like them. It’s from all of us.” 

Over her shoulder, the man at the register — her brother, Devin or Damion[4] — waved slightly. “Let me know when you need a top off,” she added, nodding at their drinks.

She turned to go, and Aziraphale shot Crowley a look. The demon stubbornly refused to make sense of it, still silently nursing his coffee.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at Crowley, exacerbated, then said, “Hold on a moment, dear.” Dahlia turned again. “We got something for you as well.”

Now it was her turn to look shocked. “Oh, you shouldn’t have—”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale cut her off, patting his pockets. “Now, I know I put it somewhere.” No. Absolutely _not_. Crowley groaned with embarassment— the angel had miracled something small into his palm. He was going to do a _trick_. The angel skillfully ignored him, looking up at Dahlia with a puzzled face. “I say, what’s that behind your ear?”

“My ear?” Dahlia echoed, too slow to stop Aziraphale from reaching forward towards her. He mimed pulling a ring from behind her ear.

“Oh!” she said as Aziraphale pressed it into her hand. Crowley squinted. It looked like it had a little opal set in the middle. Tch. He’d given the bloody angel who designed those inspiration from his galaxies. “Oh, I can’t take this—”

“It’s a promise ring,” Aziraphale explained poorly. Dahlia gave it a very confused look, then glanced nervously to an unhelpful Crowley. “No, no,” Aiziraphale huffed. “It’s for Amelie. It’s been about two years now, hasn’t it?[5]

Dahlia beamed. She grasped the ring tightly now, holding it to her chest. “Oh, thank you!” she gushed. 

When they were finished they left a very large tip, like always, and headed back into the street. It was early afternoon now, the air not so much biting cold as it was pleasantly chilled.

Aziraphale had that scarf wrapped around his neck. Green wasn’t his color, Crowley thought bitterly, trying to ignore how adorable the angel was all bundled like that. Wrapped up like a present.

“Didn’t know you liked scarves,” Crowley drawled, trying and failing to seem like he’d been thinking about anything other than that for the past twenty minutes.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale asked. He was gazing up at the sky.

“You don’t wear them often, s’all.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale seemed thoughtful. He puffed a little breath out in front of him, watching it rise. “Well, I suppose mass manufactured scarves don’t hold much appeal for me. They’re itchy, they feel like… metal. No emotion attached at all.” He made a little face.

Crowley watched him run a finger over the ribbing. His nails weren’t perfect for once, Crowley realized. He wondered if he needed a new manicurist. Maybe he’d let Crowley do them himself. His hands itched at the idea of it, holding the angel’s soft palms between his hands, filing, polishing, soaking. A nice clear top coat. Maybe he could even convince the angel to try a soft cream polish…

“But when they’re handmade, it’s so very different. It’s like the intention of the maker is stitched into every row, like— Oh!” He stopped suddenly, his eyes lighting up delightfully as he spun to face Crowley. “Silly me. I keep forgetting!”

When they first moved into their cottage, they’d found a handmade quilt which had led into an important conversation — a combination of Crowley admitting and Aziraphale realizing that the demon could still feel love. Love from any source other than the Boss Upstairs, at least. That was a fact Crowley hadn’t pushed Aziraphale to understand, though — no need to make the angel pity him any more.

“Here,” Aziraphale said, offering an end for Crowley to touch.

Begrudgingly, Crowley ran a finger over it. He quirked an eyebrow. It was less potent than the quilt had been, but there was a definite warmth to it. Not just because of the soft wool it was made of. No, every few stitches buzzed with a sort of gentle affection and appreciation for the angel. The feeling seemed to concentrate on the edges. 

_She needed to focus more there,_ the demon realized. He’d been a Maker, Before. He knew the difference between the focus and care given to one star of trillions versus the exact positioning and coloring of a unique galaxy. The edges must have been especially difficult, then. 

Without thinking, he tilted his head towards it, lifting up his sunglasses to get a better look. He could see it now, the single thread of yarn that ran in and out of itself over and over again, knotting together so specifically, over and over again until it became strong in itself. Until it _became_ itself. It could have been any number of things, but this is what it was now. He was struck once more by the cleverness of humans, even in little ways like this.

Then he realized Aziraphale was watching him, that unbearably warm, amused look on his face, and Crowley let his glasses drop. He let go of the scarf, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Ngh. Gross,” he muttered.

Aziraphale chuckled, looping his arm around the demon’s elbow once more. Crowley didn’t bother pretending to protest.

After a pleasant moment of walking, Crowley spoke again. Always with those blasted questions, bubbling up. “Why’d you give her that ring?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Dahlia? Well, I thought it would be an appropriately kind gesture after the effort she put into our gifts. A little nudge for her relationship is practically a blessing, if you think about it.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Crowley said, “But why the _ring_? If they’re so good for each other, then they’re good for each other. Doesn’t matter if there’s some silly trinket to _prove_ it. You could've just..." He shrugged. "Placed a suggestion. Encouraged her to talk to her partner about their feelings, or whatever. Don't have to get rings and stuff involved."

“Yes, dear, I know your feelings on the institution of marriage and such,” Aziraphale sighed. _Who said anything about marriage?_ He patted the demon’s arm. “But not everyone has the same undying faith that you do in other’s affections.” 

Crowley snorted, but Aziraphale continued. “Those trinkets, be it a ring or something else, can help remind humans that they’re loved. Even if that loved one isn't around.” 

He glanced into a little jewelry shop as they passed it by. “It’s a nice gesture. That’s all.”

“Hmph.” Crowley watched as a flake of snow landed on the angel’s scarf. He brushed it away.

“You know,” Aziraphale said offhandedly, watching his breath rise towards the clouds, “the closer a person is to the one they make something for, the stronger the feeling of love is attached to it is.”

That much was obvious. Crowley glanced at the angel. Aziraphale was giving him a somewhat pointed look. Crowley sneered, hiding his blush. What, did the angel want _him_ to make something? Crowley, the Wily Serpent, the Original Tempter, rocking in an armchair, knitting up a little scarf for his sweet hubby. Laughable. Detestable. Inconceivable.

Aziraphale patted his arm. The waves of affection and amusement were palpable, but Crowley couldn’t really be bothered by it. The two walked the streets of Sudfield a bit longer, enjoying the peaceful evening air. Crowley certainly did _not_ notice the craft shop on the corner, and made _no_ plans to come back during the week to collect supplies.

**————**

_Footnotes_

1Or down? They were very particular about language Down There [return to text]

2Aziraphale had gushed over the lovely weather, saying how fluffy and cozy it made everything without actually sticking to the ground. “I couldn’t have miricaled it this lovely if I tried.” Crowley could have. He may or may not have done it just to see the delighted look on his angel’s face, but he still did as any decent demon would and pretended to be irritated with it all the same. [return to text]

3 Dahlia didn’t know he was a demon, of course. They’d simply been talking about tattoos and piercings one day and she’d noticed it, and asked him when he’d had it split. That led to several unsettling internet searches into the history and methods of tongue bifurcation, and a long night of the angel rubbing little circles on his back as Crowley tried to get the imagined sensation out of his mouth. [return to text]

4 She had an older brother and a younger one, one named Damion and the other named Devin. Their family had a thing for names starting with D. [return to text]

5 Serendipitous timing, really, that these two young women would realize their affection for each other just as the two meddling occultish beings moved in up the way. [return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next one weren't going to be separate, but then I added so much fluff that I wanted to split it in half for editing purposes. So basically, this is so so fluffy. And the next chapter is still fluff, but there's more going on.

A few days after that excursion, Crowley headed into town on his own — “Have a nice time, dear,” Aziraphale had called absently, eyes trained on the first edition on his desk — for a bit of shopping.

He returned over an hour later with a large paper bag in his arms. When Aziraphale stood on his tiptoes to try and see inside, Crowley lifted it high above their heads and hissed. “Really, dear,” Aziraphale chastised, rolling his eyes. Crowley locked himself in their bedroom after that and would not let the angel in.

“Tea, dear?” Aziraphale asked after a few hours. The door opened the slightest crack. Aziraphale chuckled to himself, slipping the cup into Crowley’s waiting hand, then gently closing the door after him.

They continued like that for some time: Aziraphale restoring his book at the desk in his den, and Crowley locked away in their bedroom doing… whatever it was he was doing. There were a few loud swears now and then, and once it sounded like Crowley might be fighting with something. Over all, though, the evening, night, and following morning passed fairly peacefully.

Aziraphale hadn’t realized just how much time had passed until the chiming of the grandfather clock insisted that it was noon of the following day. There was still no sign of Crowley.

He decided that it was time to bother the demon again. Not that he minded time apart, as it were. He could still feel the demon’s presence within the cottage, like a cozy wallpaper that makes you feel better for it being there even if you aren’t particularly paying attention to it. Still, he wondered if perhaps the demon was sulking about something, and if so, what.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale knocked on their bedroom door. “Are you finished with that tea?”

“Don’t come in!” the demon called. His voice pitched, seeming very nearly panicked. 

Aziraphale frowned, pressing an ear against the grain of the door. “Are you sure you’re quite alright?”

“Fine, fine! Just — _ssshit!_” He sounded utterly distraught.

“I’m coming in,” Aziraphale informed him, unlocking the door with a thought and stepping into the room. Divine energy crackled and gathered around his form as he prepared to protect Crowley from whatever was harming him.

It crackled away in an instant, like air rushing out of a balloon with an underwhelming little whine.

Well. That wasn’t what he’d expected.

“I sssaid, don’t come in!” Crowley hissed, now clearly more embarrassed than actually upset.

The demon was sitting in his silk pajamas, cross legged on the bed. He had two purple needles in his hands — thick ones, _knitting_ needles, Aziraphale realized — and a long scarf was forming between them. It wasn’t the neatest, he noted as he looked closer at it, but he was fairly certain it was meant to resemble tartan. Cream, with stripes of brown and red running more or less straightly through it [1].

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale said.

“It was meant to be a surprise,” Crowley muttered. He sighed, looking back down at his work. “I’ve lost my count.”

“Your… count?

“For the row. ‘M following this.” He nodded at the bed sheets. Aziraphale stepped closer, noticing his phone open to a pattern in front of Crowley. He frowned, trying to make sense of it, as Crowley said, “Dahlia says I have to count it or it won’t come out right.”

“Dahlia,” Aziraphale echoed. “You’ve been asking her for tips?” He didn’t bother withholding the affection gushing from him. “That’s quite sweet of you.”

“Shaddap,” Crowley huffed. He crouched over his project like a dog over a bone. “Surprise is ruined anyway. No real point in finishing now, is there?”

Aziraphale tutted, settling a gentle hand against the demon’s locks. Crowley leaned into it slightly. With admirable effort, he managed to maintain a half-hearted snarl. It was quite an amusing menagerie of body language.

“Well, perhaps this is a good thing, dear,” he mused. “You could have… _friends_ over, to help you out. A… a knitting circle of sorts!”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah right. I’d rather discorporate from having a piano dropped on me than have anyone from town know about this. They’re just learning to fear me.”

Always painted a vivid picture, this one. “Ah, understandable,” Aziraphale nodded. “I do know how you love to keep up appearances.”

“S’not appearances when it’s true,” Crowley muttered, doing his very best to seem irritated. When Aziraphale leaned over to kiss his forehead, though, the gentle hum of affection that the demon was radiating became quite apparent. Aziraphale smiled, starting to pull away after a moment. Before he could, a slender hand caught the edge of his bow tie. 

Crowley had long ago done away with wearing his sunglasses in the cottage[2], and his golden eyes stared up at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale hummed, allowing himself a slight smirk. “And what about your count?”

“The count is lost. Dead and buried.” Crowley let go of the angel’s bow tie, then set to folding his work up. Aziraphale suppressed a chuckle at the speed with which Crowley cleared the bed. 

Crowley turned back to him once his work was done, head tilted. “Care to consssole me?”

Aziraphale held his hands out expectantly. The demon quirked an eyebrow but took them all the same. Aziraphale tugged him up until he scooted to the edge of the bed. The practically _yelped_, likely with shock at the sureness of the angel’s movements. So he hadn’t lost all of his touch, then.  
Crowley bracketed Aziraphale’s hips with his legs. Aziraphale held him close, one hand on his cheek, the other settled on that bony hip.

“I think I have a bit of time for consolation.” He pressed a little kiss to Crowley’s lips, then pulled back again. The demon blinked owlishly at him[3]. “What did you have him mind?”

Crowley bit his bottom lip, dropping his eyes to Aziraphale’s forearm. Ah. This was a new facial expression Aziraphale had noticed since the Apoco-slip-up. It made an appearance when Crowley was about to ask for something that he was fairly certain Aziraphale would say yes to, but still felt demonically obligated to be embarrassed about wanting. 

“Braid my hair again?”

Aziraphale hummed, tilting his head and appraising Crowley softly. He twisted a curly red lock around one finger, cupping Crowley’s cheek. The demon leaned into his palm, and his eyes fluttered shut when Aziraphale ran his other hand through his hair. 

“Of course, love.” He placed a little kiss on Crowley’s forehead. “Where’s your brush?”

Crowley nodded to the bedside table. Aziraphale grabbed it, toed off his oxfords, and settled back against the headrest. “Come here, dear.”

Crowley backed up, settling between Aziraphale’s legs. Aziraphale hugged his love close to his chest, nuzzling the back of his head. Crowley tilted his head a bit, pressing his cheek against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He gave Crowley a little kiss.

“You’ll need to sit forward a bit, love.”

Crowley grumbled but complied. He shifted forward, then dipped his head down. As Aziraphale ran the paddle brush through his hair, his shoulders slackened bit by bit. Crowley had been growing his hair out since they moved into the cottage, and Aziraphale adored it. It reminded him of those years they’d spent God-fathering, more or less, the American ambassador’s son. Warlock, that was it. Crowley was much better at keeping up with their letters back and forth than Aziraphale, but the angel did put an effort in. When he remembered.

Even with the threat of the world ending, that had been the most pleasant decade of his existence. As far as he could remember, at least. The very Beginning, before the Fall, was fuzzy even for angels. He assumed it was for the whole Host, at least. They hadn’t really talked about it even when they were on better terms.

Aziraphale gently tugged through a knot in Crowley’s hair. 

The demon sighed. Aziraphale wondered what things had been like before he was stationed on Earth. He couldn’t remember it as any more than vague impressions of light and temperature. Emotions hadn’t been invented yet, or at least nothing that he could remember other than a generic ‘lovey’ sort of thing. Whether his memory lapse was due to some sort of divine intervention or merely the endless sands of time, he couldn’t be sure. He doubted anything had been better than this, though.

Not for the first time, he thought about what it would have been like if he hadn’t come to Earth. What _he_ would have been like, if he hadn’t met Crowley. Something in his chest tightened at that idea, something protective and nervous.

“Oi,” the demon muttered, squeezing the angel’s knee through his trousers. Aziraphale straightened up a bit. “Too rough.”

“My apologies,” Aziraphale hummed, kissing Crowley’s crown gently. The demon grumbled but seemed to accept the apology. Aziraphale set the brush down and began running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, separating it into sections.

“What’re you thinking about?” Crowley’s voice rolled in that way that meant he was getting sleepy.

“Hmm. Nothing much. Just how I’m glad to be here with you.” He crossed one section over the other, then again. Up this close, Aziraphale could make out the occasional gold strand. They shimmered like leftover stardust.

“Y’sound soft sayin’ stuff like that. Almost makes it seem true.”

Aziraphale kissed him again, on his tattoo right below his ear. Crowley shivered. “It is true, love. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale chuckled softly. “I’m sure you’re quite right. That’s why I choose to tell the truth instead.”

Crowley sighed, head tilting forward once more as Aziraphale worked the braid further down his scalp. His fingers just brushed the base of his skull now. “Clever,” Crowley muttered.

“Charmer,” Aziraphale quipped back.

Their dance done, the two settled into a familiar silence. They didn’t need to breath, but in quiet moments like these there’s a comfort to it. An understated melody rises, a duet, really. The two human-shaped beings sit, hearts beating and breaths rolling in and out like rolling waves.

With the braid finished, it reached right between Crowley’s shoulder blades. Right where his wings were, resting just on the other side of this plane. Aziraphale rubbed a hand over the spot absently.

“Alright,” he said, unsure if the demon was even awake enough to hear him. He was answered, though, by a content sigh and the weight of Crowley’s lithe body as he leaned back against the angel.

They sat there for a while, Aziraphale wrapped around Crowley, face nuzzled into his neck. The demon smelled like dark roast coffee, like whiskey, like soft downy blankets and a little bit like something else. It took Aziraphale a moment to place it.

“Rose?”

Crowley shivered at the angel’s breath in his ear. Aziraphale smirked.

“Rosewater,” Crowley corrected. “The yarn lady gave me it.”

“The yarn lady?” Aziraphale echoed. He hadn’t known that Crowley was all that close with anyone in town and was thus surprised that he’d not only been given a gift but had actually decided to use it.

“Mhm. For m’hair. Said it would help it grow.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. It did smell lovely. “Well. That’s very sweet of her.”

“Ngg,” Crowley replied noncommittally. Ah, then he was done talking for the time being.

“How would you feel about a nap?”

In response, the pressure against his chest greatened. Crowley was to push him into a lying position, regardless of the headboard. Aziraphale chuckled.

“Scoot forward, dear.” They broke apart for a moment, and Aziraphale carefully removed his bow tie, pretending not to notice Crowley’s starstruck eyes tracing his every movement. Taking his time, Aziraphale slipped off his waist coat, getting up from the bed to hang it in the closet.

Crowley groaned as he watched Aziraphale open the wardrobe. “It’s just clothes, angel. Come _on_. He flopped on the bed, limbs spread out like some greedy vine.

Aziraphale tutted a bit, but came back to the edge of the bed. “Really, dear. There isn’t even room for me.”

“Don’t need room,” Crowley grumbled. “Just come _here.”_

A few moments later, the angel and the demon were curled up around each other on the bed. Aziraphale tucked his head against Crowley’s chest, feeling that familiar warmth blooming in his own chest, running through his limbs and flushing his skin. _Love._ Crowley’s breath tickled his head, his face buried in Aziraphale’s soft curls. They didn’t need to breath — he was doing it solely for the pleasure of it. 

Aziraphale could still feel the Almighty’s agape sort of love, on occasion, if he really thought about it. Even so, he would be lying if he said that the all-encompassing warmth of Crowley wasn’t preferable. He wasn’t sure which would be more blasphemous — lying about it or admitting that fact. 

“You’re loud,” Crowley muttered.” 

Aziraphale started slightly. “Pardon?” 

“Can feel you. Worrying.” Arms tightened around Aziraphale’s back as Crowley tugged him closer. “Don’t do that. Just… be here.” 

“Hmm. Greedy,” Aziraphale teased. “I’m already here with you. Must I be thinking about only you as well?" 

“Yesss,” the demon hissed, hands firmly around Aziraphale. The vice-like grip of a snake wasn’t supposed to be this comforting, he thought hardheartedly, already melting against Crowley. 

“Well,” Aziraphale started, intending a clever comeback, but he found himself a bit distracted at the moment. Crowley hooked an ankle around Aziraphale’s leg, tugging him as close as their corporeal bodies would allow. Aziraphale sighed and whatever thought he’d been working on melted away. 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale settled on, letting himself be surrounded by the warmth that rolled of Crowley in waves. _He’s doing that on purpose,_ Aziraphale thought, before deciding that he didn’t really mind, and then not thinking about anything else for a very long time. 

**————**

_Footnotes_  
1 Straighter than Aziraphale, in any case.[return to text]

2 He did tend to wear them in the evening, though, when sunlight streamed through the west facing kitchen windows like an unrelenting tide of nerves. For the first time in hundreds of years, Aziraphale wondered if there was actually a physical aspect of the comfort they offered him. He’d been working on the assumption that it was largely an emotional comfort, but now he had to wonder.[return to text]

3 Aziraphale could practically _see_ Crowley short circuit whenever he used that low voice on him. _“Sultry,”_ the demon had said in an accusing tone. _“Absolutely sinful. An angel shouldn’t be allowed to sound like that_.” 

_“Like what, darling?”_ Aziraphale drawled, and he didn’t need to look up to tell that the demon was speechless once more.[return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

A week later, Crowley took up Aziraphale’s suggestion to have a knitting circle[1]. The morning of the event he seemed oddly nervous. They hadn’t been close with any humans for… well, never, so far as Aziraphale could remember. Perhaps he was nervous about entertaining guests. The thought absolutely tickled Aziraphale, and at least twice that morning Crowley scowled unconvincingly at the angel and ordered him to be _less affectionate in his direction, thank you very much._

He sprawled ridiculously at the kitchen table while sipping his dark roast — Dahlia had gotten him some lovely coffee grounds for his present, it turned out — before slipping on his coat. “I’m just going to run into town,” he said. “Grab a few more supplies. Told the yarn lady to come over at three, so I should be back by then."

Aziraphale nodded, tilting his head towards the little kiss Crowley gave him on the way out the door. “That sounds lovely. I’ll see you later.”

An hour or so passed — Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure, engrossed in his reading as he was — when he heard a knock on the front door. He glanced at the clock. It was only two. Crowley generally just let himself in, anyways, and he hadn’t heard the Bentley pull up the drive, either. He didn’t recognize the aura at the door, but it certainly wasn’t Crowley.

For a moment Aziraphale had a terrible thought. _They’d_ come back. Above or Below, because was there really a difference anymore? He should have known better than to think they’d be able to relax, to just sit back in each other’s company without punishment. Aziraphale stood, hand twitching as he tried to pinpoint the identity of the aura. What he wouldn’t give for a flaming sword right about now.

But no. As he looked closer at it, focusing on the metaphysical plane with all of his eyes, he realized it was neither of Heaven nor Hell. No, it was special, certainly, different from the average human, but not too powerful. The closest he’d felt to this aura in the past century was hat young American lady with the book of prophecies, or perhaps Madam Tracy. Occult-adjacent, then, but not directly of ethereal stock.

There was a second series of knocks on the door, more insistent this time. “Coming!” Aziraphale called, rushing over. He swung the door open to reveal a middle aged woman in deep purple and gold clothing. She had a tote bag over one elbow, nearly overflowing with knitting supplies, and her smile was sweet and unreadable.

That was irritating. With humans, all it took was a glance to get a true read on them, their past and their intentions. Witches and their lot tended to be a bit more… difficult. He wished Crowley had warned him a bit more about this one.

“Mr. Fell, is it?” she asked, holding out a hand.

Aziraphale shook it, pushing through his confusion. “Ah, yes. I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met before?”

“Mollie,” she said, giving him a not so subtle once-over. It wasn’t the kind of look Crowley gave him from time to time. No, this reminded him more of Gabriel. Whereas the disapproval had been fairly clear on the Archangel’s face, it was unclear what Mollie was thinking. Self-consciously, Aziraphale folded his hands over the buttons of his waistcoat. 

They stood there for a long moment on the doorstep, Aziraphale grinning nervously back at her relaxed smile. Mollie eventually tilted her head behind him. “I’m just waiting for the knitting group,” she explained. “I run the shop in town. May I come in?”

“Oh! Oh, of course,” Aziraphale rushed, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter. “The den is right through here,” he said, wringing his hands at the sight of it. “Oh dear. It’s a bit of a mess. Um, just a mo’.”

Mollie hovered in the doorway as Aziraphale scurried around, collecting books and mugs he’d left lying around during his most recent literary dive. Once there was room on the sofa, Mollie settled there quite comfortably. She set her tote next to her on the floor, then looked up at Aziraphale a bit expectantly.

“Erm…” He wracked his brain. It had been ages — literally — since he’d entertained. Even then, it was usually poets or writers, and they preferred to pour over writing than stare at the angel like some sort of exhibit. “Would you… like some tea?” he finally managed.

Mollie smiled widely. “That would be lovely. Splash of cream, no sugar, if you please.”

Aziraphale nodded, then hurried off to the kitchen.

By 2:15 they were both settled in the den with a cuppa. Aziraphale knew it was 2:15 precisely because he kept glancing obsessively at the clock, hoping Crowley would finished up whatever he was doing quickly and come home to entertain.

“Mr. Fell,” Mollie asked, not allowing him to settle into his panic like he so dearly wished to. “If I may ask, what’s your first name? I feel a bit silly calling you _Mister_, seeing as you can’t be more than ten years older than myself.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale laughed, then immediately felt self-conscious by the volume of it. He took a little breath. “Oh, I’m not too sure about that. I’m older than I may look, my dear.”

She just smiled, face patient but unwavering. Her question finally sunk into his mind.

“My first name… ah…”

Oh, dear. He had always preferred _Mr. Fell_ — it didn’t feel too far from he truth, but wasn’t too familiar, either. Even the moniker he used for business purposes, _A. Z. Fell,_ was practically just his name. It was _Crowley_ who was always comfortable shifting his persona, his title, who took brilliantly to the whole thing. Even if the names seemed a bit odd to Aziraphale at first, he still appreciated that they came to be the demon’s. When he’d come prancing into that church, and that horrible Nazi woman had announced that his name was —

“Anthony,” he blurted out without thinking. He smiled nervously, trying desperately to ignore the sense that he’d just made an enormous blunder. Mollie quirked an eyebrow.

“You’re both named Anthony.”

Drat. Of course Crowley had been using his human alias around the humans. “I — What I meant was—”

“That’s absolutely precious,” Mollie interrupted. She seemed amused, but not suspicious. “It makes more sense that you’d like to go by your last names, then.”

Aziraphale smiled, some of his mention melting away. “Ah, yes. We didn’t realize it for the longest time, though. We both, ah, prefer going by our last names, as it were.”

“Hmm.” Mollie tilted her head, sipping her tea. She was absolutely adorned with jewelry, much of it seeming to fall into a ‘night sky’ theme. Sparkling crystals shaped like stars dangled from her ears, bangles in deep blue wobbled on her wrists, and rings lined her fingers reminiscent of the solar system. “How did you two meet?”

“Oh, ah,” Aziraphale stuttered. If Crowley were here, he’d certainly hush the angel for spilling too much at once. He would simplify, then.

“We met in a garden, actually. Ah… the Royal Botanical Gardens. Er, the Kew Gardens.” He wasn’t exactly sure which was right, if he was honest. Crowley had gushed about them once over drinks, but that was before they were… well, before they could go and do things regularly together, purely for enjoyment. Mollie just smiled, so he continued on.

“We didn’t hit it off right away. Or,” he frowned. “Well, we did in a way, but we both felt that… well, _I_ felt that we shouldn’t have.” He looked down into his tea. “So it was a bit longer before we really became… good friends.”

Mollie nodded knowingly. “I’m sure that must have been difficult for you two to work through. Folks haven’t always been so understanding as they are now.”

Aziraphale frowned, unsure how she knew what he was talking about. How could she _possibly_ know about the shifting of tensions between Heaven and Hell from being opposition to something more like… over-competitive teammates.

Then he blushed as understanding spread through him. “Oh, no, it wasn’t … ah, it wasn’t because of gender, or anything so silly as that. It was…” He frowned again. Oh, bother. “Our families,” he settled on, “Did _not_ get along.”

_That’s an understatement,_ he could imagine Crowley scoffing. Or maybe he would just quirk one brow over his glasses, which would mean exactly the same thing. Or it could mean something else entirely. It was hard to tell sometimes, but that was what made it so fun to try.

“Hmm.” She sipped her tea, staring at Aziraphale with dark eyes until he felt the need to continue speaking.

“After that, ah, we ran into each other from time to time. Working. Our professions overlapped, sometimes.” Goodness, this was rather difficult. The only thing that would have been harder would have been making up complete lies on the spot. Not because the angel was against lying, but because he simply wasn’t a very convincing liar. He could hardly even tell the truth without it seeming like a ruse, sometimes.

“And what was it that you two did, exactly?”

“Ah —”

Aziraphale was saved some very awkward ad-libbing by a rather surprising chime. “Pardon me,” Mollie said, reaching into her tote to pull out a slim phone. She read whatever was on it and tapped something back. Aziraphale noticed that the case seemed to be a star chart. Hmm. She was a Libra, then, like Earth.

After a moment, she set her phone face down on her lap and picked up her tea. She opened her mouth to continue her questions — a bit rude to talk and drink tea at the same time, wasn’t it? — but Aziraphale jumped in. He hadn’t been idle as she’d been drafting her text message. He’d been preparing.

If she wasn’t going to drop the awkward questions, well, he would just have to take control of the conversation entirely.

“Of course, like any, ah, good friends, we’ve had our fair share of disagreements.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, sometimes it could get quite nasty. We once went months —” _years_ “— without speaking to each other. A bit silly, that.” 

Mollie stirred her tea.

“But, Crowley is rather dramatic, so you can hardly blame him.” Aziraphale leaned forward in his seat, getting quite into it now. Mollie mirrored him. “He really is a sweetheart at his core, you know. Not that he’d stand to hear that,” Aziraphale shared conspiratorially. He oughtn’t be sharing this much about Crowley, but the demon didn’t need to know, and it really did feel lovely to speak freely about him. Since leaving his barber in London, he’d barely gotten to ramble about the dear. Crowley certainly wouldn’t stand for it. He’d all but melt into a puddle of goo to hear the angel go on about his virtuous qualities.

“— lowercase ‘v’, you understand. We don’t really go into absolutes or ideals these days.”

He was pulled out of his reverie — _oh dear, had he said all of that out loud?_ — by the very intense look Mollie had fixed him with. She seemed absorbed in his hands. Aziraphale folded them into each other, pulling them to his stomach.

“Oh, I… well, I haven’t found a proper manicurist in the nearby area yet, you understand, and… I know they’re rather a mess at the moment.” He frowned.

Mollie blinked, looking back up at him. “Pardon?”

“My nails,” he elaborated. “They’re usually much neater than this, but, well, what with the move and all… I’m just not nearly as talented as the professionals are, you see.”

The corner of her mouth quirked in an expression not unlike those Crowley would give when he thought the angel was being particularly ridiculous or charming.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Anthony. I was just looking for a ring.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. A. J. Crowley would never let him hear the end of that one. 

“Well, I’ve this one.” He showed her the little gold ring on his pinky. The little feather band had been his obligatory bit of angelic gold, but he had taken quite a shine to it over the years. After he had realized it didn’t pain Crowley to touch it, he’d had no reservations about keeping it.

Mollie shook her head. “No, I mean more like…” She wiggled the fingers on her left hand, pointing at the fourth one. A silver beveled band sat snuggly around her finger.

“Lovely, yes,” Aziraphale noted passively. A long beat passed before the meaning of her question sunk in. “Oh, married!” Laughter burst out of him like champagne from a bottle that had been given to an erratic chimpanzee. “No, I’m afraid not. I mean, ah it just never really happened.” 

Mollie had the passive but attentive sort of look that made it all to easy to ramble. Aziraphale found he couldn’t stop himself.

“Not that I wanted to, that is. Or want to. I don’t. Don’t even know who I’d go with. Didn’t really have many romantic interests in my time, er, or any at all, no, not really my cup of tea. The whole thing seemed a bit silly, Crowley always said, and it’s certainly true that the paperwork would be a bit much.” He set his tea down with a clink, fumbling with the brass buttons on his waistcoat.

“And of course, getting married in the eyes of the… the _church_ was never really something that Crowley or I — er, separately, mind you, — really cared about. Doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. Dear.” He snatched his cup up once more, drinking it much more quickly than was deserved by such a fine brew. Anything to silence his rambling.

Mollie’s eyebrows were pitched up in what may have been, humiliatingly, amusement. “Of course. I understand.” She sipped her tea once. “Sometimes we say the most in the silences between our words.”

Aziraphale boggled at her, but before he could say anything, loud music shook its way through the cottage walls. A familiar aura sauntered after it.

_There goes my baby. He knows how to rock ‘n’ roll.  
He drives me crazy. He gives me hot and cold fever, then leaves me in a cool cool sweat[2]._

“Crowley!” he exclaimed, setting his tea down and standing up. The door of the Bentley slammed shut as the music cut out. By the time he got over to the door and swung it open, Crowley was already lounging against the door frame. He shoved his hands into his pockets, a smug sort of look on his face that made him very difficult to read.

“Hey, angel.” He smirked, glancing at their guest. “What’s up, star girl? Care to help me with my knitting… stuff?” 

Mollie stood, and with that, the two darkly clad individuals made their way to Crowley’s — and _Aziraphale’s_, thank you very much — bedroom.

Aziraphale followed after once he recovered from his shock at the whirlwind of commotion. The door was already locked. “Crowley—?” he started, indignation rising in his voice at being ignored, but cut him off when he heard the whispering.

“This is it. You’re sure he’ll like it?” That was Crowley, just barely holding back the slide in his ‘s’.

“Trust me,” Mollie said. “He’s head over heels for you, lover boy. He’d be thrilled with any of them.”

“I — ngk — what am I supposed to do, again…?”

Aziraphale backed into the den, hiding his smirk the best he could even though he was alone. Well then. He’d already spoiled one of Crowley’s surprises. If the demon was planning something else, he’d do his best to stay out of it until he was ready to share. He absorbed himself in one of his titles, pretending he had no idea what the demon was doing in the other room.

**\------**

_Footnotes_

1 Rather, he’d announced one day at breakfast that he’d _“Had the great idea to have someone over to knit,”_ and that _“This was an original idea I had all myself, I'll have you know.”_  
Aziraphale had just added a spoon of sugar to his tea and nodded pleasantly. _“Yes, yes dear,”_ he’d said. _“Always coming up with such lovely, original ideas.” _[return to text]

2 Aziraphale did not realize the error in the lyrics. The Bentley had never played it any other way when he was around. [return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one or two more chapters to post. I'm considering posting them together because otherwise the fifth one will be very short comparatively, but they're also from different POVs so I might separate them. We'll see!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the rating from General to Teen and Up because... I don't know, there are some swears? There isn't exactly smut, per say, but... well. Metaphysical stuff, I suppose. Hard to categorize, you know?

Including Mollie in this operation had been a stellar idea, Crowley thought, mentally patting himself on the back. She was, more or less, human, so she knew how humans did things, but she also wasn’t put off by the underlying _occultness_ of either the demon or the angel. She was also very good at getting the angel to talk[1], although she wasn’t as keen to share back what she’d learned with Crowley.

“Y’don’t have to tell me what you _talked_ about,” he’d tried, “Just tell me what he _said_.” His tone worked very hard to make those things seem at all different.

To that Mollie had told him to just _suck it up_ and _talk to him yourself, and he’ll gladly tell you everything._

So sure, Mollie was helpful, but she was also a pain in the arse. He’d tell her such next week when they had a proper knitting circle[2]. 

At the present moment, Crowley was lounging on the couch in the den, while Aziraphale sat in his floral armchair reading some old book or another. He had those little spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, and the warm floorlamp they’d bought had them shimmering gold. The light caught his lashes behind them, and those blue eyes, as Aziraphale skimmed them back and forth over the page. 

It was all very hypnotic.

It was the slight, knowing smirk that crept onto the angel’s lips that broke Crowley from his reverie. He swallowed.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley after just a moment, his finger settled on the page in front of him. Usually when Crowley tried to speak to a focused Aziraphale, he was met with some placating, noncommittal noise. It was unexpected and, frankly, disarming to have his full attention that quickly.

For a moment, his mind went completely blank and warm.

There, that smirk again, amused and honestly, a bit cocky. “Yes, dear?”

Face burning, Crowley went to push his glasses up further on his nose, only to poke himself right between the eyes. _Right._ He wasn’t wearing them. He flopped back against the couch, forcing himself to look relaxed and not at all embarrassed and tingly like he really was.

“Do you — would you — hng…” His throat felt thick when he tried to swallow.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Take your time,” he said, a touch too sweetly to be truly sincere. _Bastard._ That irritating warmth bloomed again in Crowley’s chest.

He rolled his eyes. “We haven’t picniced in a bit,” he forced out, casually. _Good start_. “We should take a spread to the Downs some evening, maybe a nice bottle of wine, do some star gazing.” He shrugged. “If you want. I could just as well go alone, doesn’t matter to me.” 

_Yikes_. That was not nearly as romantic as he’d intended it. Oh well. He wouldn’t be a respectable demon if he was too romantic, would he? Suave, seductive, sure. But not romantic[3].

Inviting an angel on a picnic under the stars and ‘_popping the question_’, as the yarn witch had called it, well… that wasn’t very demonic at all, was it?

_It’s just us now,_ Crowley reminded himself forcefully. _It doesn’t _have_ to be demonic._

When Crowley came back to himself, he saw that Aziraphale had his book closed in his lap, hands folded up. He was looking expectantly at Crowley, as if waiting for a response.

Ah. “Sorry, think I missed that.”

“I said,” Aziraphale repeated himself primly, “That sounds lovely. When were you thinking of going?”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Tomorrow?” Crowley didn’t want to seem _too_ keen.

Aziraphale frowned, lips pursing, and Crowley’s stomach started to drop faster than a questioning angel into a pit of boiling sulper. _Hng._

“Tomorrow,” Aziraphale repeated. “That doesn’t leave a great deal of time to prepare a spread…”

“Oh, no, I’ve got it,” Crowley assured him quickly. “You don’t have to bring anything.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Just yourself. Your company.”

A look flashed over Aziraphale’s face that could have been amusement or love. It was hard to tell sometimes, although Crowley supposed it didn’t matter much which it was, as long as it kept the angel around for a bit.

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat, smiling. “Alright then. Tomorrow night.”

The next evening, the two drove out to their favorite overlook on the Downs when what should have been an apparent problem finally made through the thick defenses of their skulls.

“It’s snowing,” Aziraphale said, looking out the windscreen.

“Hng.” Crowley clutched the wheel until his knuckles turned white.

“It’s quite cold out,” Aziraphale added, tone carefully monotone.

“Bloody freezing,” Crowley hissed, knocking his head against the dash. Aziraphale tutted his tongue.

They’d been buzzing with energy all day, chatting in the kitchen as Crowley made snacks and chose drinks and folded up the blanket and tucked it all in the car. They’d gotten all the way to the cliffside and parked while conveniently ignoring the weather, but when Crowley went to unfold the blanket they just stared at each other. Finally, Crowley hissed, “Dammit, back in the car!” and into the Bentley they scrambled.

Back in the present, Crowley growled. “It doesn’t bloody snow in Hampshire!”

“That’s not exactly true, dear,” Aziraphale placated. “Why, just the other day it was! Don’t you recall what a lovely day that was?”

“My point exactly,” Crowley meant to say, but instead it came out more like, “Erghhk.”

“There, there,” Aziraphale soothed. Crowley felt a gentle hand on his forearm and stared down at it through his dark frame. It was quite warm. “Who’s to say we can’t just have our picnic in here, hmm?”

For all his romantic efforts, Crowley blanched at that suggestion. He whipped his head up. “In the _Bentley!_ Do you _want_ to ruin it? I only just got it back!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Really, now. Two years is not _only just_,” he argued, but of course they both knew that two years was nothing. “Besides, it’s not as though I’m a _slob._ I know perfectly well how to enjoy a meal without making a mess.”

“Oh sssure, you say that now,” Crowley hissed, “But once you’re a sandwich in you’ll be too far gone to give a single blooming care for anything besides your next bite.”

Aziraphale shot him a look — _Rude,_ Crowley could practically hear him say, — and huffed. “Well, it _is_ the middle of Winter, my dear boy. I’m not sure what you were expecting.”

“I…” Crowley could feel the heat rising to his face, and pushed his glasses more snuggly up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, just thought it would be… y’know. Romantic.” He muttered the last word so horribly that he was hopeful Aziraphale wouldn’t have heard.

The flash of love that rose from the angel disproved this idea. Crowley ducked his head.

“Well,” Aziraphale reasoned, “A little bit of cold never discorporated anybody, hmm?”[4] He tapped his fingers on his thighs in thought. “I could just… miracle up some heavier clothes, perhaps, or maybe you could warm up the area a touch.” He frowned. “That would take an extended amount of concentration, though, and I really would like us both to be fully present for the… picnic.”

Crowley tilted his head, about to press the angel about his tone, when he remembered something. “Oh!” he exclaimed, swinging the driver door open. 

“Oh, shut it!” Aziraphale yelped. “It’s freezing out!”

“Hush up,” Crowley grumbled, reaching around his seat and into the back. There, under the picnic basket, was the box he’d wrapped Aziraphale’s scarf in. He’d forgotten it somehow, all caught up in picnic presentations and the presence of the angel himself. He grabbed the present, slipping back into his seat and shutting the door.

“For you,” he said, shoving the box unceremoniously into the angel’s arms and then facing straight ahead. Of course, he was watching out the corner of his eye, but the angel couldn’t possibly tell through the sunglasses.

Aziraphale gave him a little look — that soft, pleased one — and untied the tartan ribbon and cream wrapping paper. Just like Dahlia’s present, this one came in a little box. _But this one’s better,_ Crowley thought smuggly in an effort to stamp out any nerves.

Aziraphale opened the box and gently took the scarf in his hands, beaming. Then his eyes dropped down and he was absolutely silent. His face was doing that thing where it went completely blank. It was bloody unsettling, given how expressive Aziraphale usually was.

Crowley furrowed his brow, his whole body itching like he needed to shed old skin. “Well?” he barked. When he was met by silence, he grew worried. He peered into the angel’s aura — he generally tried not to, seemed rude — and was confused by the swirling colors and temperatures. That was the best way to put it, really, although it was none of those things. It was whatever the angel was feeling, thinking. It was as ineffable as his cherubic face.

That was when he remembered his second blunder of the evening. He really was an idiot.

“Oh — shit,” Crowley started. “I forgot that — I mean—” Aziraphale looked up at him now, blue eyes wide, and Crowley couldn’t seem to put a sentence together. “She told me she’d wrapped them together, and I completely forgot—”

Aziraphale looked back into the box but didn’t touch, as though it might hurt him. There, nestled under the scarf, was a gold ring with a damning offset diamond. It was a bit thicker than some of the other rings Crowley had considered, but still clearly an engagement ring. Mollie had assured him of that.

Crowley held his breath, unsure of what he should do. Should he go ahead with the proposal? He couldn’t exactly kneel in here. He’d meant to do it later, under the stars, a bottle or two in with his angel happily full of handmade food. Not right after a little spat in the Bentley because he was too much of a mess to check the weather before suggesting a picnic. 

He’d run, that was it. He pulled frantically at the door handle, but the Bentley had locked itself and wouldn’t let him leave. _Traitor,_ he bemoaned.

Aziraphale’s careful voice broke him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I thought you were against this type of thing.”

Crowley snapped back to attention, still clutching the useless door handle. “Eh. I was.” Aziraphale frowned. _Shite_, that must have been the wrong answer.

He set the scarf back in the box. “I don’t want you to do something simply because you think it will make me happy, Crowley.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow. “Since when?”

There, that was a readable emotion flashing across the angel’s face. Hurt. Crowley backtracked.

“Joking! I just meant… ‘course I want to make you —” he swallowed, gearing up, “— happy. I, y’know,” he said. It bordered on a whine. “Well, you know how I feel.”

Airaphale stared down at the tartan scarf, running a thoughtful hand over it. He finally settled his palm flush against it and sighed. Crowley wished very much that he was that scarf at the moment. “Yes, I supposed that I do, my dear.” He looked up. “But why the ring?”

“Why.” Crowley blanked out. He’d had a whole speech planned. Maybe he still had the card in a pocket somewhere. “Well, why do _you_ like that kind of thing?”

Aziraphale sighed. “It’s comforting, I suppose.” That made sense. His angel enjoyed nothing more than comfort. “The idea of this promise to - to stay by someone’s side. A sort of — well, a dramatic declaration of love, I supposed. Not that I doubt that you love me, dear,” he assured Crowley, looking up again. “I know that you do.”

“I do,” Crowley affirmed, voice croaking despite his wishes.

Aziraphale smiled. He was softening a bit. “You’re just so very… flashy, in so many ways. I just thought I might enjoy it in this situation as well.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. The idea that somebody actually _enjoyed_ his flash — it made him short circuit just a bit.

“Well, what about you, dear?” Aziraphale pressed. “Why your sudden turn around on the matter?”

“It seemed like the kind of thing you’d be into. You weren’t exactly subtle about that, you know,” Crowley started, pushing on before the angel could object. “And then I got to thinking about it myself. About what it means. And… well, humans get married and divorced all the time, or they die, or they’re unhappy but stay together, or they do it for money or whatever. Lots of the times it isn’t because of… what it should be about.” 

Airaphale raised a brow, and Crowley ducked his head. “Y’know. Caring about the other person, or real… devotion, or…” He grimaced.

“Love,” Aziraphale prompted.

“Yeah, that.” Crowley swallowed. “But with us, it would be all that. We’re practically married as is,” Crowley said, then blushed as he realized what he’d said. “Or—”

Aziraphale touched him finally, setting a hand on the demon’s. “Yes, dear, I feel the same way.”

Crowley could feel the warmth flowing between them from the touch of skin on skin. “Right,” he said, voice very far away. His angel’s eyes were shimmering — _tears of joy,_ Crowley realized abstractly. So he wasn’t along in this overwhelming feeling.

“Mollie convinced me, actually,” he admitted, loosening up a bit. “I feel kinda silly now, what with how big of a cock-up the whole thing’s been.”

“You haven’t messed anything up, my dear,” Aziraphale promised him. He slipped their hands together, Crowley realized giddily. “You haven’t even done it yet.” He squeezed once, then pulled away.

Crowley made a noise of protest, but Aziraphale ignored him. The angel slipped the scarf around his neck, closing his eyes. Crowley gathered that it was a bit more overwhelming than the scarf Dahlia had given him. _Good. It had better be._

And then he was struck by an image. It wasn’t entirely seen by his eyes on this plane, but on the other. He saw the angel in front of him — _saw him._ All brilliant light of grace, an unimaginable flame of kaleidoscopic colors, soft edges and sharp fractures. And Crowley saw his own aura, stitched into the scarf, wrapping around that bright light. Not to strangle it, though — no, it held Aziraphale gently, scaffolding him, meeting him, cradling him. Crowley saw thousands of eyes, he saw a spread of wings, a globe of glistening feathers, a sunrise and a sunset and the birth of a thousand stars. Constant, barely controlled, powerful.

All of this he saw in at most a second. Before he could be entirely fried by staring at the divine light, he felt something touch his corporation. Aziraphale’s hand, resting on Crowley’s forearm.

“Come on, love,” Aziraphale prompted. He opened the passenger door, reaching back for the blanket. “The wind has died down, and the snow has stopped. I do believe it’s become a miraculously pleasant evening. Shall we picnic?”

“Hng,” agreed Crowley. He shoved the ring into his pocket and scrambled out of the Bentley as soon as his body was no longer just a mass of tingling nerves.

They spread the blanket out on a recently sprouted patch of grass. They were near enough to a chalky edge of the cliff to see waves crashing below, but not so close as to risk losing any of their picnic over the edge. Above them, stars began to blink into the dark velvety sky. Crowley settled down. He slipped a hand into his pocket, turning the ring over and thinking.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked, scooting closer to Crowley until their shoulders touched. He felt like he was on fire, but like something that wanted to be on fire. Like.... like whatever liked to be on fire. Maybe a candle.

Crowley made a sound in his throat that could have meant anything. Even he wasn’t sure what it meant. They’d been more intimate since moving into their little cottage, but even after a couple of years Crowley was still getting used to how amazingly overwhelming it was to be close to the angel.

Aziraphale pulled away slightly. “Are you —”

“It’s fine,” Crowley rushed, grabbing the angel’s elbow before he could even think about moving further away. “It’s good. Just, come here.”

Aziraphale hummed, pleased — and a bit smug — and pressed more snuggly against the demon. Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, nestling his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and pressing his nose into the scarf.

The angel, amazingly, ignored the picnic itself for a moment. Instead, he took to rubbing little circles on the demon’s thigh, a motion that entirely scrambled his brain. His eyes fluttered shut as he breathed the angel’s scent in deeply. _I love you,_ he thought, pressing his mind as close to Aziraphale’s warmth as he could.

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley started. The angel chuckled, and after a moment the two of them settled against each other once more. This was easier, maybe, for now.

_Nosy angel,_ he teased, and this time Aziraphale’s chuckle bubbled through them both.

Crowley slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling the ring into his palm. He tried to imagine all the moments when he’d realized, over and over, that Aziraphale was what he wanted. There were too many of them to even count. The bastard, so prim and particular, and bloody smart, and not nearly as oblivious as he pretended to be.

_Stay with me,_ he thought, trying to press all of those overwhelming emotions and memories into one sentence. _I made the stars, once. I would make them all again for you._ Turned out he could be a hopeless romantic in the safety of his own mind. He quite enjoyed it, actually, and picked up the pace.

_I would make thousands, billions of galaxies, and string them all together for you if that would make you stay._ He nuzzled into the angel’s curls. _I would tear down the Heavens themselves, I would fill every crack in Hell with soil until there was nothing left but us._

He could feel the angel trembling against his body, feeling his words. Crowley, awed, ran a hand down Aziraphale’s left arm until it met his hand. They both stared as Crowley spread his fingers, brought the ring over, and — slowly, slowly, in case the angel decided bollocks to all of this and pulled away — slipped it on his ring finger. It fit perfectly.

“Mine,” he whispered with all the reverence of a prayer — _blegh_ — then swallowed quickly. That was too presumptuous, too greedy. Frantic, he patted his pockets with his free hand, looking for his notecard. Shit, he was supposed to do this _before_ offering the ring. 

“I mean — er — Aziraphale the, uh, the Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and, uh, proprietor of A. Z. Fell and… blast it, where the Hell did I put that damned card—”

He felt Aziraphale shifting now — no doubt about to throw a fit for this ridiculous display — but he only cupped Crowley’s cheek. His face was blindingly bright, and Crowley couldn’t look away. Didn’t _dare_. The demon’s hands trembled, ghosting just above the angel’s hips. Aziraphale gently touched his sunglasses, waiting a moment. Crowley swallowed, then nodded, and Aziraphale gently slipped them off and set them aside.

“Stand up,” Aziraphale just short of ordered. He pulled Crowley to his feet, then immediately dropped to one knee again. Crowley gaped, watching as Aziraphale slipped the little gold ring off of his pinky.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” he said, eyes beaming up, holding on to Crowley’s hand like something precious. “My steadfast partner and dearest companion. Since the beginning of time you waited for me, helped me, challenged me. For six-thousand years—”

“Gonna be six-thousand more by the time you finish this,” Crowley interrupted, thoroughly embarrassed by being shown up in the proposing department but also not-so-secretly loving it.

“— I have been _falling in love_ with you,” Aziraphale pushed on, effectively shutting the demon up. “And you stood with me at the end of time, against everything we’ve ever known, to save the world for me.” 

_That made it sound very soppy,_ Crowley thought deliriously, although he couldn’t argue with point being made.

“You are the bravest, kindest, most clever being I have ever had the honor of knowing.” Crowley was too busy tingling from head to toe to remember to yell at the angel kneeling before him — _proposing to him_ — for calling him nice. 

“And I would be eternally grateful if you would do me the honor of being my… well.” At this point, Aziraphale did seem to stutter a bit in his speech, although Crowley was wildly impressed with how far he’d gotten. “My… husband, I suppose? Is that the term we’re going with?”

At this moment, Crowley remembered he needed to breathe to speak, and choked out, “Just give me the damn ring, angel.” Aziraphale grinned, slipped it on his finger, and pressed a kiss to the demon’s knuckles.

Crowley all but melted then, falling to both knees — _as if in prayer,_ he thought deliriously — and grabbing the angel’s face. He pulled him into a kiss that was, in all honesty, a bit messy and a bit less than chaste. Aziraphale made a surprised noise, but it shifted quickly into a hum and then he was kissing back — _he was kissing back._ Not just a peck on the lips, or the cheek — those were perfectly lovely, of course — but something more. Whatever it was, Crowley was struck by the overwhelming need to be closer.

“Let me…” he whispered into the angel’s mouth, then stopped. He had no idea how to explain it.

“What is it, my darling?” Aziraphale asked, pressing their foreheads together. 

Crowley all but whimpered. “Let me… can we try something new?”

At this Aziraphale blinked, pulling back ever so slightly. “Here?” he asked, a bit unsure. “Would you rather go back to the cottage? Or—” and whatever he thought Crowley meant had really put that sparkle in his eye “—perhaps the Bentley?”

The question didn’t register with Crowley. His brain was firing on a different level at the moment. Concepts such as different places didn’t really compute. “Ngh?”

Aziraphale laughed, tracing Crowley’s cheek. It felt like liquid gold, burning, but lovely. “Whatever you want, dear. You need only tell me. I trust you.”

That nearly destroyed him. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand — he could feel the ring on his fourth finger — and tugged the angel onto his lap. Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Should I… I mean, I don’t presently have—” He gestured vaguely down, and Crowley shook his head.

“No, no, don’t need to be more… human.” Ironically, his human corporation decided that now would be a good time to have a very hard time breathing and swallowing. It was difficult to speak. “Be _you_, Angel.”

He could nearly taste Aziraphale’s confusion in the air, but when Crowley tugged him closer, it melted into amusement. The angel molded into his grip, straddling his waist in an effort to get as close as possible. They just locked around each other, which was very pleasant in itself, but Crowley had something else in mind.

He’d been a Maker, Before. He’d designed stars, mostly, celestial bodies. He’d given spark to galaxies and cradled them as they exploded into something greater than he could have ever imagined. Well acquainted with the fabric of existence, he could pull it and form it just so to make beautiful things for Her.

Then he’d Fallen. 

She wouldn’t want him Making things for the Other Side, he supposed. It only made sense. From that point onward, though, it had hurt to Make. Like, actually _hurt_. It had stung like hot sand, like touching a skillet before it had a chance to cool. It started in his fingers and spread to the center of his chest until it burned him, until he thought he might burst in half, and he had to stop. He could manage something small — a flower, maybe, or a dessert that he was familiar with. Anything much bigger, though — or Somebody forbid, entirely _new_ — and that horrible rending feeling would snatch him up. So, due to personal reasons, he’d mostly let his interest in Making go.

That was only with a capital ‘M’, though. He’d found some comfort in human art, in their inventions. Cars, certainly, had been a fantastic invention — art and function all in one.

_Don’t wanna think about my car,_ he hissed internally. Aziraphale chuckled against him. The angel pressed his lips in the dip between Crowley’s shoulder and neck, and he shivered.

“Your… aura,” he whispered, tasting Aziraphale’s confusion and curiosity. “Let me see it.”

He felt a hesitation, a slight pulling away, and he opened his eyes. Aziraphale looked down at him, one hand on each of Crowley’s shoulders. Those blue eyes were full of concern.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Crowley.”

Something inside of him thrashed, like a skinned snake. He hated this, this reminder that he was something _different_, that he was… well, Aziraphale might not say it, but that he was _less_ than an angel. 

“You won’t hurt me, dove,” he promised. Aziraphale didn’t look convinced. “I’ll tell you if you are, just… please.”

That new pet name — _dove_ — made Aziraphale absolutely melt every time. He cupped Crowley’s cheek, looked searchingly into his eyes, and said, “Alright, then.” And then he pulled back the wall he kept his true, divine self safely behind.

It hurt. Of course it hurt — Aziraphale was rarely wrong — but it wasn’t _bad_. Couldn’t be bad, not if it was the angel. It was a blinding heat, like the merciless summer sun, but it was also the cool evening beneath the stars. It was the rushing water of the river, the rocks that battered his body, and the shore on which he rested. It was the sting and the salve. It was everything. Crowley shuddered before it, clinging desperately to his angel.

The pain and the glory ebbed away. Aziraphale was cradling him now, simultaneously pulling closer physically and pushing away metaphysically. _Please, please don’t,_ Crowley thought, even as he realized that he was sobbing into the angel’s shoulder. He felt a strong hand petting his hair.

“Hush, hush, dear. I’m so sorry,” he murmured, voice full of worry. “I should have known better.”

“Don’t leave,” Crowley gasped, clinging to a few strands of divinity before Aziraphale could pull away entirely. Before he could leave him alone.

Aziraphale froze, both on this place and the next, cautious. “Dear,” he pleaded, voice low. “Be careful.”

Crowley nodded but didn’t let go. They were the same, he thought. Same material, really, same yarn. Just, Crowley had been pulled apart, remade into a different pattern. He let his mind slip away from this plane, into the next.

This was more complicated than the body swap. That had just been a passing through, a wave as each being slipped easily into the vessel of the other. They hadn’t _touched_, not really. And what Crowley wanted to do — well, he wasn’t really sure what it was, but it was definitely more complicated than all that.

He saw the angel before him. Aziraphale the Principality, Aziraphale the Guardian, Aziraphale with a thousand eyes and countless feathers, Aziraphale who was warm, who was breathing granite, sparkling snow, unmelting, constant.

He could see golden threads wrapped tightly around his form. Crowley reached out tentatively to touch them. They stung a bit, but at the very same time that they wounded him, they granted healing. Deep healing, healing things he hadn’t known were broken. He burrowed — he himself as a network of iridescent dark threads — into that gold. Tentatively laced them together at the surface.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt his physical body, vaguely. He felt Aziraphale tug him closer, burrowing into his hair, pressing a hand against the small of his back. The angel made a soft noise, open, honest. Something Crowley couldn’t place but wanted desperately to hear again, but his mind was pulled back to the other plane.

The golden threads were meeting him now. _Mine,_ he felt, although he didn’t know which form it came from.

_Mine,_ again, and the strands were intermingling now, tying each other closely, and it burned, and it soothed, and it was now and had always been and would be forever.

_Ours,_ and that was it, really. There was nowhere but this, nothing existed but this. This little, boundless space of _Ours, ours, ours…_

And so on.

—  
In the beginning — not _the Beginning_, but perhaps _a_ beginning — God created England. She kicked it by the beach for a while, left some footprints, and eventually strolled up a small path on the cliff side. She reached a little outcrop where a vintage Bentley was parked. The car flashed her lights at God cheerfully as She walked by, and God smiled and slipped a CD of her own creation inside with a thought.

Then she turned to the interesting, nostalgic mess of energy on a picnic blanket in a public park.

And God said, “Let there be two,” and there were. God saw that the light was good, and she separated it from the dark which was also good but perhaps a bit of an idiot. After all, it was still a serpent at heart and was cold blooded and it wouldn’t be very bloody romantic if it managed to freeze to discorporatoin just after proposing, now would it. God called the idiot who was cold beyond comprehension Crowley, since he’d asked Her to, and she called the one who’d thought to give away the sword to those humans Aziraphale, because he’d never really had a problem with that name before.

As a general rule of thumb these days, God didn’t like to intervene with any of her children’s free will. However, she reckoned she could make an exception on this occasion because 1) Crowley and Aziraphale were on vacation, 2) Only idiots get discorporated on vacation, and 3) Perhaps they were idiots, but they were _Her_ idiots, and they’d rather been through a lot lately, thank you very much. Also, for good measure, 4) She was God, so there’s the end of that.

They’d also spilled their Château Margeaux, which was really a shame because they’d been so delighted to find it in the back of the bookshop while moving, so God straightened that back up good as new. 

Then She tapped her Principality on the newly reformed shoulder, and he started awake, and seemed to realize the sorry frigid state of his other half. “Oh, dear me,” he muttered, and wrapped the stylish patterned scarf around Crowley, and helped him tenderly into the car.

“Take them home, if you please,” God asked the Bentley, and the Bentley obliged. And if Aziraphale thought later that he’d miraculously learned to drive an automobile, well. That was just the cherry on the top.

**\------**

_Footnotes_

1 And the demon as well, although Crowley would never admit this. [return to text]

2 So maybe Crowley had gotten into knitting for its own sake as well. Why don’t you just shaddup about it.[return to text]

3 He wasn’t being suave or seductive here either, but if you asked Aziraphale he’d tell you that the demon was being quite charming, which tends towards the same end result. Don’t tell Crowley, though. He’d likely feel a bit self conscious about that. Best to let him think he’s suave in all those dark colors he wears, eh?[return to text]

4 This was blatantly untrue, but a nice sort of sentiment.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide whether I wanted to focus more on book canon or show canon. I usually do a mix of both, but since I was mentioning God's pronouns and also dealing with things that warranted addressing the body swap, I sort of leaned more into the show. I think it'd be compliant for both, though. It's also post-canon, so. Go crazy, right?
> 
> In my first draft of this, I accidentally wrote 'Picnic presentations' instead of 'preparations.' I had to change it, of course, but the image of Aziraphale sitting through hours of power points Crowley made about potential spreads and locations, all while smiling pleasantly and sipping a drink, just seemed like something they would very likely do.
> 
> Also, in case you're wondering, I really do intend to write a short piece where Crowley has a cold post-picnic and Aziraphale takes care of him. Because what could be softer than that?
> 
> (And then the next piece, which I'm already working on, will probably be a bit of hurt/comfort. So look out for that one.)


End file.
